I don’t know why the age difference didn’t occur to me at the party, but it seems to be a deal breaker, like a knee-jerk instinct. I’ve never really dated a significantly younger guy. And twenty-seven versus thirty-three feels pretty significant. We’re not going to date, obviously, but if I happen to drop him a text and maybe think about him naked while doing so, does six years make me a cougar?
I thank the waiter when he puts my wine down in front of me, then turn to Steph. “Oyyyy, Steph. I just realized he’s your age.”
“Who’s Carter?” Amelia asks. “I don’t remember hearing anything about a Carter.”
“He’s a friend of Mike and Steph’s,” I tell them before sipping my wine. “He was fun. Daryl might know him, actually. He’s in TV-Lit at CTM?”
“Carter Aaron? I’ve never worked with him but hear he’s good.”
“He is good,” Steph says before looking back to me. “And ‘fun’? He’s hot, Evie. Carter is great-looking, and smart, and he’s a genuinely good guy who might even be good enough for you.”
I ignore this suggestion that I’m picky. “He’s young,” I say. “A fact you neglected to mention.”
“He’s twenty-eight!”
“Oof,” I groan. Okay, so I’m only five years older than he is. “I was already in school when he was born.”
“In kindergarten,” Steph says.
“Those feel like important years.” I remember being twenty-eight, and watching my guy friends then was like watching Muppets in adult male bodies try to navigate the world.
“Well, guys on the East Coast mature earlier,” Steph reasons.
Amelia and I exchange a skeptical look. “Twenty-eight is everyone’s fake age once they turn thirty,” she says.
I nod. “And I’m three years past thirty.”
“That just means you’re in your sexual prime!” Daryl sings. “Come on, live a little.” She does a little shimmy and leers in my direction, adding, “A younger guy.”
I groan.
“Honestly, Evie,” Steph says, “I feel like you’re always looking for reasons why you can’t date someone.” These words seem to reverberate in my head, even as she continues, “He had fun. You had fun. Why not call him?”
“I do not look for reasons not to date someone.” I frown, mildly offended.
“Actually,” Daryl interjects, “you do. You’re picky and impossible.”
I give Daryl a dubious glance. “Says the also-single girl.”
“Okay, now look.” Amelia holds up her hand. “I get what you’re saying about the age, but five years doesn’t seem that bad. Would you give a second thought to dating a guy who was five years older than you are?”
“Stop being smart, Amelia,” I mumble.
She laughs. “I think you should call him.”
“Did you not hear the part where he’s also an agent? A younger agent.”
Amelia winces.
“This reminds me.” Daryl finally slips off her sunglasses. “You never said what Brad wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh, he wants me to help John Fineman, to make sure he stays busy.” I laugh. “In what universe does that make sense? John’s the one who showed me around when I started at P&D.”
I look out to the patio area, just to be sure nobody we know is around, then turn back to the girls. “You know when someone’s up to something, but they’re questioning everything everyone else is doing? That’s how I feel about Brad lately.”
“Like when someone’s having an affair and suddenly suspicious of what their partner is doing,” Daryl says, nodding.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Something’s definitely up.”
“I know he’s been having a lot of earnings reports sent to his office,” Amelia adds. “I don’t know what it means, but it’s unusual enough that some of the girls in Finance had to scramble.”
“Why does that make me a little uneasy?” I ask, and reach for my glass. “I just don’t trust Brad.”
“See, this is exactly why you should call Carter,” Steph says. “Stress relief via orgasms.”
My friends are no help at all.
chapter four
carter
MC and I are the only people who are genuinely happy that I live in LA now. My brother, obviously, could not care less, and my parents . . . well, even two years on they’re just to the left of violently opposed. It’s fine for Jonah to live in Malibu because Jonah is young and chasing a dream and can do no wrong. But Carter moving to Beverly Hills? Hellfire.
I call my parents Monday night to verify for them that I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere.
“Well good,” Dad says. “But you should go see your brother more. He’s lonely.”
“Jonah?” I laugh, flipping my grilled cheese in the pan. “Trust me, he’s not.”
“Go see him,” Mom needles from the other extension. “He’s just next door.”
“Mom, he’s in Malibu. It’s like an hour away.”
Dad coughs. “It’s an hour from here to Brooklyn, but we make it to see your aunts every weekend, and you know what they have in Brooklyn? Sweaters on trees, Carter. I saw someone walking a goddamn peacock the last time I was there, and when I stopped for coffee? This weird little hipster place sold yarn, too. Coffee and yarn. Who the hell puts those things together?”
“Okay, so I’ll put you in the no column for Thanksgiving in LA,” I say, sliding my sandwich onto a plate. There are weirder things in LA than coffee and yarn.
There’s a heavy, meaningful pause before Mom speaks next. “Jonah said you were sleeping at Michael Christopher’s because you didn’t have a place to live.”
I rub my temples. Of course he did. “Jonah is a liar.”
“You be nice,” she chastises. “He also said you met a girl.”
Taking a bite of my sandwich, I chew and swallow to give myself time to hide my irritation with my brother. “She’s a friend of a friend, Mom. I met her at a party.”
“You met this woman at a party?”
“A costume party, not a rave,” I say. “She’s a friend of Michael and Stephanie’s, so I’m assuming she’s not a Hollywood madam.”
“You’re making that assumption based on Michael liking her?” Mom asks.
This makes me laugh. “We spent a grand total of three hours together. It’s not a thing. And I promise, she’s okay.”
“She lives in Los Angeles, Carter,” Mom growls. “That’s not okay with me. I don’t understand why you couldn’t find someone here. She’s probably got fake boobs and that—that—poison they put inside their foreheads.”
“Botox?” I guess.
“That.”
“All right, let’s take it down a notch,” I say. “Jonah lives in LA and I don’t recall you ever giving him this much shit.”
“One, watch your mouth. And two, I barely see your brother, so don’t use him as a shining example.” She sighs into the line. “Jonah has always been a dreamer. You’re my responsible one. Call him.”
“Okay, Mom. It might take some time to get our schedules worked out, but I’ll call him.”
“That’s my sweet boy.”
? ? ?
In this business, not hearing back from someone for seven days is nothing. We’re all busy, with stacks of scripts and books and audition footage to go through, phone calls to return, and emails to read. Callbacks get shuffled around and ranked in order of priority.
A week is nothing.
I gently remind clients of this truth on a daily basis. I remind them that no news is good news. No news means they haven’t heard no. But when it’s your dream on the line, time takes on an entirely different meaning, and even the most patient person can lose it.
“But wouldn’t they know right away if they loved it?”